


the opening line

by onthelasttrain



Series: cursed!captain swan cygnet believer/excerpts from a fic I'll never write [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate season 7, Gen, but also not cursed, cursed!henry, cursed!hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26410813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onthelasttrain/pseuds/onthelasttrain
Summary: Henry Swan is an orphan. Raised in the foster system after the tragic death of his family, he's left with nothing but faded memories, deep loneliness and a fear of the dark. He lives his life as a former author turned average citizen, resigned to his fate that he'll never get what he lost back.But all that may change when a young girl appears at his door, claiming to be his sister. His first instinct is to dismiss her as a stalker, but something in the back of his mind gives him an even scarier prospect; that she is telling the truth, and his family is out there.
Relationships: Emma Swan & Hope Swan-Jones, Henry Mills & Emma Swan, Henry Mills & Hope Swan-Jones
Series: cursed!captain swan cygnet believer/excerpts from a fic I'll never write [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869652
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	the opening line

**Author's Note:**

> Hello kids! So this is a big decision; I've decided to start a series of one-shots from what would be my ideal version of season 7. I'll explain any context clues needed in the author's notes as we go along, but this one is fairly straightforward. Enjoy!

_“This is what you’re going to do,” their mother tells them, standing the two of them side by side. “You’re going to run. You’re not going to look back, you’re not going to stop. You’re going to run and you’re going to get to the wardrobe and hide in there until it’s over.” Henry holds his sister closer, feeling her body trembling through his jacket. Their mother smiles, pride shining in her eyes despite the terror coursing through her veins. “And then you’ll come find us.”_

_“Mom,” Hope chokes out, tears already running down her young face. Henry’s heart breaks for her, the weight of this destiny far too much for her young shoulders. Not quite the same prophecy as the one their mother faced, but similar enough. Emma presses a kiss to the young girl’s head and looks into the green eyes so like her own. “Mom, I can’t do this.”_

_“Yes you can,” she tells her firmly, her eyes looking up to check the sky. They don’t have much time, and Emma knows it, so she makes do with what she can. “You’re my daughter. You’re descended from Queens and warriors and pirates and Saviours.” She grabs both the girl’s shoulders, forcing her to look into her eyes. “And you’re a survivor, Hope. You and your brother. I don’t trust anyone else the way I trust the two of you, okay?”_

_Hope opens her mouth to answer, but a clap of thunder stops her, a scream eliciting from her mouth instead._

_“We don’t have any time left. Killian and I’ll hold anyone off. You two go. Go!”_

_Her final order jerks Henry into motion and he grabs his sister’s hand and takes off into the woods, their feet skidding over stones and sticks, their hands barely visible in front of them. The trees seem to have grown and spread over the sky and smoke blocks out the moon and stars. If it wasn’t for Hope’s magic guiding them to the wardrobe, they’d be utterly lost._

_Unfortunately, his sister isn’t the only one with magic, and just as they arrive at the tree where the wardrobe has been built, visitors arrive, clad in black velvet cloaks, their hands clawed. There’s a wild, feral look in their eyes and while they look like ordinary young girls, they’re not human. Not anymore._

_“Henry,” Hope whispers, her hand tightening around his, the other extending and pulsing with magic. Henry has to smirk, despite everything else. Ready for a fight, that’s her._

_But she’s not the one who needs to fight._

_“Hope, get in there,” he tells her, drawing his sword._

_“But what about-”_

_“I’ll be right behind you,” he tells her. “Now get in there.”_

_“I don’t think so,” another voice says behind them. A girl appears at Hope’s side, with a smile both beautiful and dangerous. “Young Hope. You’re coming with us.”_

_“Over your dead body,” Hope snarls, and the girl flies backwards, far out of sight, into the coming smoke. He sees her grin, savouring her first victory, but another crack of thunder shakes her out of it. Sharing a nod with him, she runs to the wardrobe, her fingers fumbling in her bag, and she pulls out a key._

_Just as he hears a click behind him, a gust of wind throws the two of them back, and more importantly, keeping the door shut tightly._

_“Hope!” he calls. He just about makes her out, hair whipping wildly across her face. Pushing against the wind, she reaches out and points across the glen, to where another girl stands, her hands raised. “I’ll take care of her. And once I do, you get in.”_

_“What about you?” she screams above the gust. “I won’t leave you.”_

_“You’re the one Gothel wants!” he reminds her. “It’s you, Hope. Whatever happens, you get in that wardrobe.” She shakes her head, but they’ve no time to argue. “I’ll be right back, just get in there as soon as you can!”_

_With that warning, he charges at the girl, sword brandished high. His limbs burn as the wind grows stronger, pushing him back, back, away from her. One foot lands in front of the other, one hand held up in front of his face, and once he’s in front of her, he slashes at her legs. Not enough to kill her, but enough to distract her. The breeze dies down as though it was never there, and the wardrobe opens behind him._

_The girl blinks in confusion, pain flashing across her face, and guilt blooms in his chest. None of this is her fault. She’s caught in Gothel’s spell, and both he and Hope know how hard that is to break._

_“Henry!” Hope calls. He turns and sees her inside, her face white and her eyes white. “Henry get in here!”_

_He doesn’t need to be reminded twice. He turns and starts running, his eyes locked on his sister’s face, his body speeding across the forest floor until he’s just steps away from her._

_Until something hits his shoulder, and suddenly his cheek is on the ground. He’s vaguely aware of his sister’s anguished screams, but the pain, oh the pain, blocks it out. He reaches up and finds his shoulder wet and his shirt heavy. He doesn’t need to guess what it is._

_“Henry!” A pair of legs come out of the wardrobe._

_“No, Hope!” The smoke isn’t just above them now, it seeps past the trees and over the ground, already engulfing the other girl. She goes willingly, smiling like she’s been blessed rather than the opposite. He turns back to his sister, her horrified face, and drags himself closer to her. “Hope you need to go now. Close the doors and you’ll escape all of this.”_

_“But what about you?” she asks. “I was mean to go with you.”_

_“Change of plans,” he grunts. And despite the searing pain and the darkness taking over his vision, he smiles. “What does our family always do, Hope?” The smoke is upon them now; they have seconds, if even. “What do we do?”_

_“Find each other,” she says. “But-”_

_“No buts!” he tells her. “You need to go. For all of us.”_

_She nods and mouths something before disappearing into the wardrobe, the doors closing and locking behind her. But not before a bolt of lightening shoots down and singes the side of the tree. He winces and can only hope his sister is long gone by now._

_He’s turned onto his back, and someone’s face is in his vision, demanding to know where his sister is. He knows who it is, and that’s exactly why he spits in her face._

_“She got away,” he whispers before she smoke fills his vision and he’s gone._

It’s raining when Henry leaves the couple off at a nightclub, one man holding his jacket over his boyfriend’s head. It’s an intimate gesture, so much so that Henry almost feels bad for looking in on it. He wouldn’t know about that sort of thing, obviously, but he can tell from looking at them. He might not know about relationships, but he knows people.

The boy gives him a tip and tells him to have a good night. He doesn’t respond to that, only thanking him and telling him to be careful before pulling out of the kerb and heading home, windshield wipers batting away against the rain.

At least that was his last one for the night. If only his shift didn’t finish at 11. And if only his apartment wasn’t on the other side of town and he wasn’t battling his way through 50 other Swyft cars, cabs, buses and cyclists. Damn he hates those freaking cyclists.

He keeps his focus on the lights of the car ahead, staring at them even as his head begins to throb. There’s plenty of light here, not just from the cars, but from the street lights and the glow of the clubs and bars and restaurants, the city bright and alive against the dark backdrop. Bright and alive. Those are the two words he keeps in mind as he drives. As long as there’s light, he’s safe.

He parks his car at around 11:30, far later than he likes to be home. In an ideal world he’d be in his bedroom with a good book (and the lamp on) at this point. The street light is still on as he gets out of the car, as is the porchlight on his apartment block. There are little lights all around him, small and flickering and weak, but they’re there.

So why is his skin crawling?

With the collar of his jacket pulled up, he makes his way to the front door, hands stuffed in his pocket. At least the lobby is lit and warmer than outside. The receptionist gives him a half-nod as he walks in, more interesting in her Instagram feed than him. Maybe some people might find that rude, but it suits him fine. The less people involve themselves with him the better.

The elevator is slow as hell and creaks so loudly the whole building hears it and it reeks of something he doesn’t want to know. There’s also dozens of messages scribbled on the walls in marker, ranging from phone numbers to people’s signatures walls to heartbroken, half-drunk rants. Henry can only look straight at the doors if he doesn’t want to read about some teenager failing school or how some pathetic asshole walked out on his baby mom. He gets enough of that from the back of his car.

It grinds to a halt and the doors open to the dim hallway. Henry’s hands clench at his side, sweat trickling slowly down his back. It’s not pitch darkness. It’s not so dark that he can’t see where he’s going. But it’s enough. Enough to make him bolt from the elevator and down the hall to his apartment, the walls blurring into one as he goes. If he could, he’d be grateful that no-one was around to see him, but all he can focus on is getting into his apartment and turning on a light before it happens.

It’s only when he’s there that he feels truly safe

He isn’t scared of the dark. Not in that way. Not in the stupid little kid way, or even the way people his age still are. No, the reason he can’t stand dark rooms and sleeps with a lamp on isn’t because of some horror movie he watched as a kid or some primal fear. It’s because of what happens whenever the lights go off.

It only takes a second of darkness for him to see it; flames leaping up at his side, spreading across the room, surrounding him, almost mocking him in the way they move. Daring him to cross over them. Smoke filling his lungs and clogging his mouth, stopping him from crying out for help. The walls of purple flame rising higher, illuminating a figure opposite him, reaching out their hand, mouth open in a permanent scream. Sometimes, lately more often than not, he hears them calling out his name, desperate and terrified, begging him to do… something. To come save them, he guesses, but he can’t be sure.

Survivor’s guilt. That’s what his therapist calls it. He doesn’t really understand that phrase. How can he feel guilty for surviving a fire that happened when he was a baby? The fire that killed both his parents. According to his file, he was mostly untouched, only a few burns that still show themselves in scars on his arms and chest. Lucky, he’s been told. His parents were less so.

His therapist also reckons the figure he sees must be his mother. And much as he respects her, he silently disagrees. He doesn’t know who it is, but there’s a feeling of protectiveness towards her that he wouldn’t feel towards his mom.

He shakes his head, smacking the side for good measure. He doesn’t like dwelling on that for too long outside the confines of his therapist’s office. That will only lead to a bigger workload for her.

He takes out his dinner-microwavable pasta-from the fridge and sticks it in the microwave, his frayed, overworked brain barely remembering to punch the holes first. He learned that the hard way. With his dinner cooking away, he leans against the wall, running his hand over his face. Behind him, the tap drips incessantly, signalling to him that another day has gone by that his landlord hasn’t fixed it. That makes it day number twenty seven. Adding that to the Internet cutting out on the regular and the heating going out every month, there’s probably a lot that his landlord has done to violate the terms of his contract, but he doesn’t say anything. Yes, this apartment sucks, but he hears that living on the streets is far worse. There’s not many places in the city a Swyft driver can afford.

Well, Swyft driver slash former author.

When he started writing that book, he pictured himself living in a place with a lot more class. At least two bathrooms, for a start. And in a nicer part of town. Maybe with a partner, some dogs. A family of his own, he guesses.

It’s not that his book did badly. At the start it had done quite well; he got emails from fans telling him how much they liked it, it made quite a few top 10 lists and people were initially excited to hear he was planning a sequel.

Only the sequel never came. And excitement died down, his book overshadowed by the next big thing; something about robots in the distant future or something. And he got left behind. There are a few old faithful fans knocking around on Tumblr and once in a blue moon, someone will ask on Twitter about his sequel, but all in all, the literary world doesn’t want him anymore. People have outgrown fairytales, and so outgrown him.

The sequel is still on his laptop. Well, sort of. There’s a blank word document with a blinking cursor, a story he’s tried a hundred times before. He can see it in his mind, the story of a brother and sister fighting against evil, holding onto each other. He knows every detail of these character’s lives, who they love and how, he knows the girl has magic and the boy wields a sword and that an evil witch has a huge interest in the girl and it’s the brother’s job to protect her. He knows these characters like they’re real, like they’re here, know them better than he knows himself and his own life.

He thinks about it all day long, and yet when he sits down he can barely write an opening line. His hand moves of its own accord and opens the laptop, the mouse moving to open the document-

Then his microwave goes off and at that same second there’s a knock at the door.

He wanted a sign from the universe that this story wasn’t worth finishing. The universe gave him two.

“If this is another Mormon,” he mumbles as he makes his way to the door. He does not have any time to talk about the Lord Jesus Christ. As far as he’s concerned, if the Lord Jesus Christ exists then He’s not watching over him.

It’s not a Mormon. It’s a girl, a teenage girl, which ranks slightly below Mormons because at least he gets what a Mormon would be doing at his apartment at this hour.

“Isn’t it a little late?” he asks her. “Do Girl Scouts usually deliver this late?”

“Do I look like a Girl Scout?” she asks, indignance evident in her voice. He’s a little shocked, and a little impressed, so he looks at her properly. He guesses she’s 15, maybe 16, with red-brown hair held back in a loose braid and green eyes. Her clothes are interesting to say the least, her frame hidden beneath a jacket slightly too big for her, the sleeves of a plaid shirt hanging over her hands and the laces on her converse coming undone. There’s something about her face too when she looks at him, equal parts cautious and hopeful, trying not to let one win out over the other.

“Are you Henry Swan?” she asks.

That’s the last thing he expected to hear from her.

“Yeah,” he answers carefully. He’s pretty sure he’s seen this movie before. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Hope,” she tells him. She smiles, and there’s something almost familiar about it. “I’m your sister.”

And then it happens. Without warning, the Earth shifts, the floor is pulled out from under him, gravity fails and he goes plummeting through the air, unable to breath. His whole perspective on himself and who he is and life itself is thrown into the air and turned around completely.

“What?” is all he can say to him. She simply smiles and ducks beneath his arm, letting herself into his apartment.

“I’m kind of hungry, you have any food?” she asks. As though she didn’t just drop the biggest truth bomb on him.

“Woah, kid,” he replies, following her into the kitchen. He finds her standing on her toes to reach the cupboard, her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth, and for the brief moment wonders when she last ate. “You just said you’re my…. My sister?”

“Half-sister, if you want to be technical.” She flashes him another smile, her eyes soft and her face glowing. “But we never really bothered about technicalities.”

“O… kay,” he says. “But I don’t…. how?” He doesn’t know if he’s asking her or himself. “You can’t be my sister.”

“Well, I am,” she says firmly.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he reasons. He sits down at the table and she does the same, a bowl of cereal in front of her. “How old are you exactly?”

“Sixteen.”

“Ah-ha!” He doesn’t know why exactly he’s so happy about this, but he is, and he points a finger right at her to prove it. Maybe because if she isn’t his sister (which she can’t be) he can go on his normal, mundane life and not have to face any massive alterations. Or disappointments. “You can’t be my sister. Because I’m thirty one-”

“You look it.”

“And,” he interrupts, rolling over her. “My parents are dead. They died when I was a baby. So logically, you can’t be my sister. You see siblings kind of have to share parents. It’s one of the things.”

“Your parents aren’t dead,” she says. She’s so remarkably casual when she’s saying all this that it’s actually infuriating. It might be a game to her, but it’s his life.

“Choose your next words carefully, kid,” he tells her. “Otherwise I’ll be tempted to call security.” There is no security, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Okay.” To her credit, she sobers up and leans on the table, seriousness creasing her face. It’s strange to see on her. “Your family isn’t dead. They’re just lost.”

“I lost my family?”

“Wasn’t your fault,” she tells him. “There was this curse and everyone got torn apart. You were meant to come with me.”

“Oh, a curse.” He throws his hands up and leans back in his chair. He should have known. “Kid, I’ve read that book. I wrote that book.”

“You mean this book?” She takes a copy out of her bag and slides it across the table. It’s small and bound in brown leather, the words _Once Upon A Time_ written across the cover. It’s his all right, even if for some reason his name isn’t on it. Nothing is, no publisher, no author’s note. Just his story.

“So you’re a fan?”

“Henry,” she says strongly. Again, there’s something so unsettlingly familiar about her saying his name. “This is our story. Our family’s, our parents.” She taps the cover. “It’s all in here. It all happened to you.”

“Nothing in this happened to me,” he says, dropping the book on the table. He pushes himself away from the table and as he does so, his shoulder twinges. The suddenness of it hurts just as much as the pain. He grits his teeth and grabs the edge of the counter, breathing slowly and steadily until it subsides. He always manages to forget about this until it flares up again.

“Are you okay?” she asks, running up to his side, her eyes wide.

“Fine,” he grunts, rolling it around for good measure. “Shoulder pain. Therapist reckons I got it when I was a baby. The night my parents…” He shakes his head at himself. “Why am I even telling you this?”

“Because we’re family?” There’s a strange look in her eye as she looks at his shoulder, something he can’t place.

“Stop that,” he sighs. He turns to face her, the two of them in stony silence. The most logical explanation is that she liked his book and got obsessed with it. So obsessed she wanted to meet the recluse author. That happens; fan culture has gone crazy these days. But there’s something about her, something about the familiarity of her face, her smile, her voice.

No, that’s insane. Maybe they ran into each other at one point at a book signing back in the day. But nothing else. She’s nothing to him and really, he’s nothing to her.

Still, she’s just a kid, and her parents are probably worried sick. And there’s all kinds of creeps on public trains and buses at this hour.

He’s going to regret this. So much.

“Where do you live?” he asks. “I can take you home, explain all this to your parents. Say it was all a misunderstanding and listen to them ground you.”

“You’ll come home with me?” she asks. Elated is almost too weak a word for her face. Her hands are clasped together in front of her face, her eyes shining.

“I’ll take you home,” he corrects her. She nods anyway, the smile on her face breathless and joyful. It almost makes him feel something. Empathy, maybe. Which is odd since he’s not the empathetic type. “Where’s home?”

“Hyperion Heights,” she replies. Oh, great. Hyperion Heights is at least a forty minute drive from here. After getting her home and explaining whatever he’s going to explain to her parents it’ll probably be around 2am when he gets back.

Besides, he’d be driving in the dark then. Pitch darkness. That’s not ideal at the best of times but especially when he’s driving.

“Is that an issue?” she asks with an audacious false-earnestness. She planned this so well that he’s almost impressed. He’s be more so if he wasn’t so annoyed with her.

“Stay here for tonight,” he sighs. Just as she brightens up, he points his finger at her, squaring up. “But we are leaving here at 6am sharp to take you back to your parents. Deal?”

“Deal.” She holds her hand out to him. He glares at her for a second but shakes it all the same. “Oh, can I use your bathroom?”

This kid has some nerve. And he supposes he’s not much better for going along with it.

“Sure. Down the hall first door on your right.”

She grins and turns to go. He watches her, kind of fascinated. Despite the annoyance, he wonders what her home life is like. If she’s in school and does she do okay there. If she has friends. If she’s happy. Why she liked his book so much. If she’s okay. He’s not one to judge but those clothes don’t look new and the way she wolfed down that cereal has him on edge.

“What did you say your name was again?” he asks.

“Hope,” she says proudly. “Hope Hermione Swan.”

“I like the middle name,” he snorts.

“You would,” she tells him. “You chose it after all.”

Then she skips off to the bathroom, leaving him scratching his head. An hour ago he was an orphan and a loner, now he apparently has a while family trapped cursed in another neighbourhood, living under an hour away from him without him knowing. A sister he apparently helped name. It’s crazy. She’s crazy. And he’s even crazier for going along with this crap. A long-lost sister showing up on an orphan’s doorstep and telling him he has a family. It’s ridiculous.

Although… he turns back to where he left his laptop, the blank first chapter still sitting there. It’s not a bad opener for a story.

He puts the laptop in his backpack. Just in case.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos make a happy author, and a happy author makes fics, and fics make a happy fandom.


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